


Like Thunder

by canadduh



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angel Wings, Castiel/Dean Winchester Wing Kink, Disabled Character, Disabled Dean Winchester, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Masturbation, Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Profound Bond Gift Exchange: Quarantine & Chill (Supernatural), Quarantine, Retired Hunter Dean Winchester, Sex Toys, Strangers to Lovers, Vibrators, Wing Grooming, Wing Kink, Witch Dean Winchester, prosthetic leg, ~esque
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:41:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24844738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canadduh/pseuds/canadduh
Summary: Thunder and Angels and Wings, Oh My!
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 8
Kudos: 187
Collections: ProfoundBond Exchange: Quarantine & Chill





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tiamatv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiamatv/gifts).



> Thank you to [ MAGGIE](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggiemaybe160) for betaing, as always.

Retirement is a good feeling, he can’t deny that. He never thought he’d make it this far, to be honest. Dean had always assumed that he would crash and burn on a hunt one day and never get up.

Of course, he had crashed and burned on many hunts but he always seemed to get back on his feet even when it seemed like he was cheating Death. (Though there was that time where he actually cheated Death, he doesn’t like to think about it).

Dean turns away from the mirror and surveys the bathroom. The Bunker was a find back when he was hunting but now the expanse felt cold and lonely. The bathroom was huge, with several stalls of showers and a large bathtub in the corner. It’s a pain in the ass to clean but the water pressure is worth it. When he’s satisfied that he’s put everything in its place, Dean adjusts his bathrobe, grabs the box he’d left on the counter, and heads back to his room.

It’s been a quiet week, he may have retired from hunting but Dean is still active with the community. He answers calls from suspicious sheriffs and gives advice to newly minted hunters. Sometimes he’ll head out to train hunters, stopping by their places of operation, and giving tips on form and techniques and handing out pamphlets that Sam has made about how to kill the Monster of the Week.

Dean is alone in the bunker, as is usually the case since Sam is still hunting, teamed up with Kevin. He’s alone in the bunker and he’s relaxed from the bath he’d just had. His room is warm and his sheets are freshly laundered. Everything is perfectly set up for the night Dean has planned.

With a smirk, Dean sets the box he’d brought with him on the side table and then pulls at the knot of his robe, letting the ties fall to his sides but not taking it off yet. He sits on the edge of the bed and reaches down to his knee, massaging the scar tissue that resides there. He reaches down further and twists the prosthetic before pulling it off.

Dean sighs and continues the massage. It’s been long enough that the area doesn’t hurt anymore but the pressure of his fingers on the skin still feels amazing. With his fingertips, Dean moves up and traces the edge of the tattoo that peeks out from under the robe. He pulls the robe aside and traces to the top of his thigh, where the tattoo ends.

He ignores where he wants to put his hand and skips to his stomach. He traces his finger between the robe and pushes it aside to circle a nipple. Dean groans as he pinches it before giving the same attention to the other nipple.

Dean spends another minute giving attention to his chest as his dick fills out. He ignores it as he shrugs the robe off his shoulders and lets it fall to the bed. Dean shifts back until his back hits the pillows and then pushes the robe to the ground.

His legs fall apart but he still ignores it. Instead, he reaches for the box and pulls it into his lap.

Inside the box are the toys that Dean has been collecting over the years. It’s not a large collection but he doesn’t really need a lot. Dean selects a thin vibrator and the lube and then sets the box back on the side table.

He shifts down the bed until he’s comfortable and relishes in the feel of the soft towel he’d laid on the comforter before he’d gone to the bathroom. Dean flips open the cap of the lube and dribbles some onto his left hand and then reaches past his dick and rubs his finger over his asshole.

“Fuck,” Dean grunts when he slips one finger in. He pumps it in and out a few times before he slips in another finger, relishing in the slight burn.

When he feels stretched and relaxed Dean pours some more lube on the vibrator. He trails it over his hole before pressing it in. Dean groans at the feeling. The vibrator is thicker than his finger and long enough that it presses against his prostate when he pushes it all the way to the widened base.

He pushes it all the way in and sighs at the full feeling. He lets it rest there and goes back to playing with his nipples; flicking, pinching, and circling them with his fingers.

Dean reaches down and presses the button on the end of the vibrator, relishing in the feeling as he shifts it to the middle setting. He lets it go and lies still, letting the vibrations wash through him as the warmth builds in his stomach.

Dean has never been loud when he’s alone. Time stolen in motel bathrooms with his brother on the other side of the door has trained him out of that habit. So even now, with no one in the vast building to hear him, Dean is still quiet, only the occasional moan slipping through.

As the anticipation builds, Dean returns his attention to his chest, playing with the sensitive buds. His cock lays red and leaking on his stomach and Dean sinks into the feeling, letting himself push closer and closer to the inevitable edge.

His breaths are even, if a bit rushed, as Dean adjusts the setting on the vibrator to high and pushes it against his prostate. He cums with a muffled whine and quickly has to shut it off, though he leaves it in his twitching hole.

He feels on top of the world as he lays there, catching his breath. Once he’s able to move, Dean pulls the vibrator out with a wince at the oversensitive feeling of his rim. He wipes it down on the towel before cleaning himself up. Once satisfied, Dean balls the towel up with the vibrator and drops in next to the bed for tomorrow’s Dean to worry about.

Dean slips under the covers and relaxes into the memory foam bed with a sigh. Dean loves what he does, but he loves moment’s like this, sated and warm and safe, even more.

****

Morning dawns with a storm brewing. The air feels electric on Dean’s skin as he makes his morning walk to the greenhouse to check on his plants. In the distance, dark clouds hang heavy in the sky. At the moment, the wind is gentle and warm.

“Looks like a thunderstorm,” Dean notes with a hum.

Thunderstorms aren’t rare in Kansas and Dean finds that he quite likes them, especially the time leading up to the first strike of lightning. The bunker is protected with wards against all kinds of weather, so he doesn’t have to worry, he can just enjoy the smell of ozone and the electricity in the air.

“Good morning,” Dean greets his plants with a smile, relishing in how they seem to perk up with his presence. “I hope you all slept well.” He smirks, sharing a joke with his old friends. “I sure did.”

Dean had never intended to become a witch. He grew up hating witches more than anything, humans turning to the dark side to hurt other humans. But then he’d met Charlie.

Charlie had called herself a “Green Witch”, a witch who harnessed the natural magic in the earth. Dean remembers his friend and mentor fondly as he checks on each plant individually. He whispers to them softly, simple spells to help fortify the soil in which they grow.

_“You’re a natural, Dean,” Charlie said excitedly as she watched the vines twine around Dean’s fingers. “Seriously, that spell took me months to figure out.”_

_“I’m not sure it was the spell, Charles,” Dean said, looking at the plant in awe. “I just think he likes me.”_

_Dean looked up at Charlie with a smirk, “I was always popular with the lads.”_

_“You still are,” Charlie said, expression turning serious. She didn’t glance at Dean’s leg, even though Dean knew that’s what she’d been thinking of. “Dean—”_

_“I know, Charlie,” Dean sighed, rubbing the still smarting skin. “I know.”_

“Alright, Bruce,” Dean says to the mint as he pinches off one of the leaves. “I thank you for the offering and the peace you bring.”

With a sigh, Dean sits on the stool in front of his workbench. His sweats roll up easily over his left thigh and then it’s a matter of seconds to have his prosthetic removed. Dean sets the leaf in a wooden mortar and picks up the pestle. He crushes the mint into a paste and whispers a spell over it before rubbing the paste on his knee.

He doesn’t really need it anymore. His leg is long healed and hardly ever bothers him. The ritual is soothing though, so Dean comes out every morning to check on his plants and rub minty healing paste on his stub.

There are no spells that he needs to collect plants for today, it’s a Saturday and Dean doesn’t spell cast on Saturdays. So he wipes the paste off and reattaches his leg with practiced ease.

The walk back to the bunker is just as soothing as the walk to the greenhouse had been. The path is narrow but Dean’s okay with that. He enjoys the occasional brush with a branch and stops to commune with the trees who have a story to share.

Breakfast is an easy affair, pancakes with more syrup than is probably healthy for one man to consume in a single sitting. He downs a mug of coffee while waiting for the pancakes to cook and sits at the table with his second mug, sipping on it as he reads the news on his laptop.

There are no new cases in his area, which is good since he’s not particularly in the mood to facilitate that. He moves onto the state news, which is very similar to the local news with nothing that he needs to worry about.

It looks like the supernatural creatures are settling down as well with the pressure of the storm moving in.

Once the dishes are put in the dishwasher, Dean fires off texts to check in with the groups that he knows are out on hunts. He pulls a random book off one of the bookshelves in the library and hunkers down on the couch he’d moved into the room for some reading until someone needs him.

***

Lightning strikes for the first time around noon. Dean looks up from his spot on the couch, worn down from all the time he’s spent reading there, and grimaces at the crick in his neck.

“I’m too old for this,” Dean sighs, putting the book on the couch and stretching his limbs out before standing with a groan. “Way too old.”

The bunker has no windows, so Dean steps outside to watch the wind howling through the trees and rain pattering away at the ground in an attempt to erode the earth to nothing. He knows there are magical powers in storms, it tingles at the edge of his senses and grows stronger with each strike of lightning.

In one of the old books Dean had gotten from Charlie, he remembers reading that storms like this were because the gods were fighting. He remembers learning that in school as well, one of the few times he paid any attention to what teachers were saying. He wonders who’s winning as he watches lightning strike miles away.

“Twenty miles,” Dean says when the sound of thunder reaches his ears. He doesn’t worry about it but he’s always curious. There’s something about storms that draws him in. It calls out to him in a way that’s comforting, feeling almost like a long lost friend.

“I am getting too damn sentimental,” Dean chuckles, looking up at the sky as a torrent of rain releases, obscuring his view of the trees with its intensity. “Or maybe I’m going crazy out here all alone.”

He watches the storm for a few more minutes before heading inside, locking the door behind him. The sound of the wind is muffled by reinforced steel, the prickling sensation of natural magic is cut off by a click, and Dean feels alone in the silence in a way that he’s used to, but somehow he still finds it unsettling.

With nothing else to do and a sense of restlessness, Dean wanders the halls of the bunker. He ignores the rooms he spends his time in and instead compulsively checks the spare bedrooms. All of the beds have protective sheets over them, the ones that people used when they visited are stored in the laundry room. He runs a hand over them and notices the dust in a few rooms has gotten out of control.

“That’s a quick fix,” Dean says with a grin. The spell he says is simple, it doesn’t get rid of the dust—he can’t just will things out of existence—but it does move it to the ground. He pulls out his phone and clicks into the app for Alfred, the Roomba that Sam had gifted him for his last birthday. He starts Alfie before continuing through the rooms and reciting the spell in each one.

“Alright,” Dean nods when he finishes the last room, leaving each door open so that Alfred can do his work. “All work and no play makes Dean a sad man.”

Dean snorts, shakes his head, and pulls out his phone to text Sam, asking to call him when he’s not in the middle of anything dangerous. His phone starts to ring automatically

“What’s up, Dean?” Sam asks. There are sounds of laughter in the background that once would have made Dean jealous.

“Nothing has to be up for me to want to talk with my little brother.”

“You’ve started talking to yourself again.”

“Yeah. I also spell casted on a Saturday, so things are definitely not normal here.” Dean says and it warms him to know that Sam knows him so well. “You finish that hunt in Missouri?”

They talk for a good twenty minutes and it’s enough to waylay the cooped-up feeling Dean had felt growing in his chest. When he ends the call, Dean finds himself in the map room, a room he hardly ventures in outside of planning for hunts.

When they had first found the bunker—an old hideout for the now deceased Men of Letters— Dean and Sam had made a point to clear out the storage rooms of ammunition and store them in the map room. Over the years, the room had filled up with various weapons; machetes, guns, silver stakes, wooden stakes, and anything else a hunter might need for the hunt.

The room feels empty with no one else in it, despite the clutter around the edges. Instead of leaving right away, like he’s tempted to do, Dean walks around the room. He catalogs each item, even though he knows the organization of the room by heart. In the corner, there’s a box of silver bullets, ready to be collected by Sam and his hunting party the next time they’re in the area.

The grumbling of his stomach reminds Dean that he skipped lunch today. He pulls hamburger makings out of the fridge and gets to work. For good measure, since this meal will be his lunch and dinner—his linner—Dean throws some French fries into the oven with a good helping of Johnny's seasoning salt.

It’s not until he’s playing his meal that Dean realizes he’s made enough food for two people. It’s not that Dean never cooks for other people, it’s just that he’s never cooked for other people while he’s alone.

Dean stands to put away the extra food when thunder sounds near enough and strong enough to shake the bunker. He pauses for a second, sets the plate on the counter, then makes his way to the front door when nothing else happens.

Outside, the storm is still raging. Wind blows strong from the north. Lighting hits the ground near the bunker. Thunder crashes deafening in his ears. Smoke rises in the distance. Dean hesitates only a moment when he realizes the smoke is coming from the direction of the greenhouse.

He runs into the rain, shouting a protective spell so he doesn’t slip on the mud beneath booted feet.

The smoke is thankfully not coming from the greenhouse. Instead, there’s a clearing a few yards away with a smoking crater. Considering the things Dean has seen in his life, the crater isn’t something that he needs to worry about. The thing in the crater, however, is.

Upon closer inspection, the thing is actually a man with short dark hair and a figure straight out of one of Dean’s fantasies. Dean's eyes widen when he realizes that the dark marks on the ground are not scorch marks. What he thought were electric scars from the path of the lightning in the ground are actually coal-black feathers.

The naked man on Dean’s property has wings.

What the actual Hell.

***

He doesn’t carry the naked man home. Dean may have kept up with exercising (for the most part) since retiring but he has never been strong enough to lift a full-grown man with full-grown soggy wings. Instead, Dean walks back to the bunker, gets the rarely used truck from the garage, and half-lifts half-drags the man into the back—the wings aren’t going to fit into the cab of the vehicle.

It’s still pouring outside but the storm seems to have faded into the distance and for that Dean is glad. He’s had his fill of surprises for the day. The smell of ozone is still strong in the air and it makes Dean’s nose itch.

“Alright, buddy,” Dean says, surveying the man and trying to figure out what to do now that they’re parked inside the garage of the bunker. “Would be helpful if you woke up now.”

The man doesn’t listen, of course, and Dean has to drag the man into the bunker through a door not designed for wings. He winces as he has to tug the wings through the opening but the man still doesn’t open his eyes.

Once they’re inside, Dean is faced with indecision. He wants to get the man covered and comfortable but none of the beds in the guest rooms are going to fit his wing. Not to mention, there’s already a large puddle forming where the man lays on the ground.

“Guess I’ll dry you off first,” Dean says, brows pinched together in worry.

He grabs as many towels as he can carry and brings them to the mudroom with him. He uses one to dry the man’s hair and then leaves it under his head so he has something a little more comfortable than the floor to rest on. When that’s done, he uses another to dry the front of Wing-Dude’s body, carefully avoiding his junk. Dean lays a dry towel on his body, hoping to keep him slightly warmer.

“I’m going to call you Feathers,” Dean decides as he starts on Feathers’ wings. He pats them dry, not wanting to cause more damage than the fall from the sky—and that just freaks Dean out, honestly—and the rain already has. Dean ignores the tenting of the towel as he works on the man’s wings.

It takes at least an hour and two more trips for towels before Dean is satisfied with the state of Feathers’ wings. He carefully checks them over for damage. Finding none, Dean carefully drags Feathers out of the mudroom and into the slightly warmer kitchen. He makes sure the man is as comfortable as Dean can make him and then starts a pot of coffee. It’s late, definitely later than Dean should really be having caffeine, but he doesn’t see how he’s going to be getting sleep tonight with a winged stranger in his house.

“Okay, Feathers,” Dean says once he’s downed a mug, burning his tongue in the process. “My bed should be good enough.”

Dragging the man to his room is easy now that Dean has more energy. He strips the sheets down to the protective cover and throws a top sheet over it, figuring the man wouldn’t care in the morning. Clean blankets come from the hall storage and once everything Dean sits down on the ground beside the man.

He pulls a small box, not his toy box, from under the bed and shifts through it before selecting one of the index cards and squinting at the nearly illegible words.

“This should work,” Dean says aloud once he’s satisfied he has the right spell.

Dean could just lift the man onto the bed but he’s worried about positioning the wings correctly and doesn’t want to accidentally hurt himself or the man. The spell doesn’t take much, just the burning of sage in a wooden bowl and a small incantation. When it’s complete, Dean is able to lift Feathers onto the bed and adjust his wings with no issue. After the man looks comfortable, Dean covers him with the comforter, puts his spells in the closet lockbox, and turns the lights off, closing the door behind him.

Dean doesn’t go to one of the guest rooms. The library is full of books gathering dust that haven’t been touched in years and he’s sure at least one of them is going to mention something about people with wings.

He grabs books at random and skims through them without sitting down. Years ago, Sam had cataloged and organized the library, so Dean stays in the section marked “Bizarro Books”. Books about creatures that any hunter worth their weight would know _had been_ real, but no longer were.

Dean isn’t sure how much time has passed when he sets down the final book from the small collection he’d grabbed. He stretches with a groan, scratches his stomach absently, then goes to check on Feathers.

“A man with wings, huh?” Dean says into the room as he watches Feathers’ chest rise and fall under the blankets.

_“Mama?” A young Dean asked, looking up at a blonde woman with wide eyes. “‘Nother story?”_

_“Sure thing, hun,” Mary replied, kissing her son on the forehead. “Then it’s time for bed.”_

_“Okay,” Dean agreed readily because he was feeling tired. Plus, he got to meet his new baby brother soon, and Dad said that big brothers need to listen to their mothers and fathers._

_Dean shifted against his mom’s side until his head was leaning gently against her stomach where he could feel the baby move, Little Sammy, if he sat still and quiet long enough._

_“A long time ago,” Mary started, threading her fingers through Dean’s soft locks. “Before even your father or I were born. Or Grandpa Campbell—”_

_Dean’s eyes widened in awe, “That’s like a million-billion years!”_

_“Don’t let your grandpa hear you say that,” Mary teased, tweaking Dean’s nose. “Long ago there were angels who lived on earth. They were special beings who were said to have wings and swords and protect the people who needed protecting.”_

_“Like I’m going to protect Baby Sammy!” Dean cheered, pushing away from his mom’s belly, bouncing in excitement on the bed._

_“Exactly, Dean,” Mary smiled indulgently at her son. “One day, though, the angels were called back to heaven, where their family lived, and soon no one saw them again.”_

_“Are they okay?” Dean asked, a worried crease—one that would grow more prominent as he aged—appearing between his brows._

_“They are, my sunshine,” Mary assured, pulling Dean back against her side. “And I know the angels are up in heaven and that there’s one watching over my little warrior.”_

_“That’s me, right?” Dean asked after a moment. “Sammy can’t be a warrior. He not even born yet!”_

_Mary laughed brightly before standing up from the bed, hand on her back to help catch her balance. She waited for Dean to scamper under the covers then tucked her oldest son in._

_“Good night, my little warrior. Angels are watching over you.”_

“Angels, huh,” Dean says softly, stepping further into the room to get a better look at the man lying on his bed. “Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing I’ve seen.”

Even in sleep, Feathers has an almost blue glow to his skin that Dean hadn’t noticed when cleaning him up earlier. It seems to shift under his skin like the reflection of water on a sunny day. Dean reaches out to touch the warm skin but pulls away at the last second, not wanting to overstep any boundaries he already hasn’t.

Instead, he observes the man—angel, whatever—for another minute, wanting to make sure he’s okay, before moving to the door.

“Sleep well, Feathers,” Dean says before gently closing the door behind him.

****

He sleeps in the room across from his own, or at least he tries too. When Dean reaches for his phone, he finds that he’s only been in his room for thirty-five minutes though it feels like hours have passed. Instead of continuing to try, Dean throws off the blankets and shifts to the side of the bed. He makes quick work of reattaching his leg and then heads to the library.

Dean grabs an old and dusty book on angel lore from the far stacks of the shelves and brings it with him to his couch. He takes the blanket he keeps there and throws it over his lower body before settling in to read.

“Did you bring me here?” A deep voice says from the door, startling Dean into dropping the book. He’s on his feet in a flash and it takes him a moment to realize that the voice belongs to Feathers.

“Shit,” Dean curses, placing a hand on his chest and taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart. “Jesus, you need a bell.” Dean sees that the man is glaring at him like Dean did something wrong by bringing him out from the rain. “I did bring you here, Feathers. You crashed by my greenhouse. What was I supposed to do?”

“Feathers?”

“I don’t know your name,” Dean shrugs. “And you’ve got wings so…”

“You can see them?” Feathers’ expression shifts from grumpy to awed in the blink of an eye. “That’s impossible.”

Dean regards the man for a moment, taking in the wings which look different now that he’s standing up, they remind Dean of a raven. They’re large and black and even though they’re tucked against the man’s back the top of the wings arch above his head, while the feathers nearly scrape against the ground. Dean thinks they’re beautiful.

“Yeah, I can see them,” Dean assures. With a groan he sits back down on the couch, letting the angel hover near the door. “What’s your name?”

“Castiel,” Feathers says, a crease forming between his brows like he’s not sure he should still be here. “You’re a hunter.”

“Retired hunter,” Dean corrects. “But most people call me Dean. You can sit down, I won’t bite”

“Dean,” Castiel repeats and Dean is shocked by the shudder that travels down his spine. Castiel pulls out one of the chairs and gingerly takes a seat, careful of his wings. “I am an… Angel of the Lord.”

The hesitation strikes something in Dean. Castiel announces what he is like he’s not sure he’s allowed to. Maybe it’s because he thinks Dean will react badly, but Dean suspects it’s something else.

“I knew that,” Dean admits. He wonders if Castiel can tell him more about angels. The book he’d been reading was not very illuminative on the subject. “But I thought you guys were sent back to heaven back when Normandy was invading England.”

“We were,” Castiel confirms, looking down at his hands instead of at Dean. “It was peaceful for a while and then my father—God—disappeared.”

“God’s gone?” Dean can’t help but interrupt. He doesn’t have a faith—he’s seen too much shit in the past 40 years for that—but even so, this news shocks him. “He just upped and left like a deadbeat dad?”

“Take care with how you speak of him,” Castiel’s eyes flash with a power that Dean can’t even begin to fathom. “He is still my father.”

Dean’s eyes widen in surprise but he nods anyway. He understands very much how complicated paternal relationships can be. “What exactly happened when God disappeared?”

“Fighting broke out.” Castiel barely shifts in his chair. He holds his back straight and still but his wings seem to ripple with movement. The movement draws Dean’s eyes back to Castiel’s wings and he notices how the wings seem to twitch and tremble with emotion as Castiel speaks. “My brothers do not get along, to say the least. When it was clear my father was not returning they started vying for control of heaven.”

“How does that lead to you falling from the sky?”

“I wouldn’t pick a side,” Castiel says like he regrets it, “so I was cast out.”

Dean feels the urge to comfort Castiel, to draw the man into a hug and wrap him into blankets, but he squashes it down. He barely knows the man, and he’s sure Castiel would not appreciate the contact from a stranger.

“That’s pretty shitty, man,” Dean tries because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“To say the least,” Castiel sighs, slumping down in his seat. He looks tired, but not like he hasn’t slept in a long time. Castiel’s exhaustion looks soul-deep and Dean wishes there was a way that he could help. “You don’t seem surprised by any of this.”

“I mean, I am,” Dean says with a frown. “Angels disappeared over a thousand years ago. I’m not a religious man, Castiel. I’m sorry to say that I didn’t really believe angels were actually real. Or that I’d ever meet one.”

“Religion is not for everyone,” Castiel says seriously. He regards Dean for a moment. His blue eyes seem to glow in the dim light. “You’re a witch, too.”

“Sure,” Dean nods. He rolls up his pant leg enough to point to his prosthetic leg. “It helped me work through this.”

“Oh.” Castiel looks from his leg up to Dean. “What happened?”

_“Dean, that’s a stupid plan,” Sam argued hotly, pulling Dean away from the trunk of the impala. “You’re not going in there alone.”_

_“Well, you’re in no position to go!” Dean yelled back, gesturing to Sam’s broken arm and the crutch keeping him off a sprained ankle. “And someone’s gotta do something before those people get hurt!”_

_“It doesn’t have to be you!”_

_“Yes!” Dean grabbed the machete from the trunk and slammed it shut. “It really does have to be me.”_

“I was an idiot,” Dean says. “I went in half-cocked by myself with only half of the information I needed for the hunt. Everyone got out safely but my leg was too injured and the docs had to amputate it.”

“Oh, that’s—”

Dean cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “It’s fine, actually. I’m almost glad it happened. I was one bad hunt away from dying and since then I’ve started practicing witchcraft and helping other hunters fight the good fight.”

“That is admirable, Dean,” Castiel says.

Dean rubs the back of his head, looking away from Castiel’s intense gaze. “It’s really not.”

Castiel looks like he doesn’t know what to say. Dean doesn’t know what to say either so he lets the moment be and waits patiently as Castiel looks around the room with a furrowed brow.

“Your warding,” Castiel says curiously studying the writing on the wall. The warding sigils that have been there since the bunker was built. Dean hasn’t been able to find any books to tell him what they mean. “There are several written in Enochian.”

Dean’s eyes widen in surprise, standing up to examine them more carefully than he has before. He carefully traces the writing before turning to regard Castiel with a frown.

“Wait, they’re not hurting you, are they?” Dean asks.

“No. This does explain why you can see my wings,” Castiel looks relieved as he says this.

“I could see them outside,” Dean hedges, wanting to know why him seeing Castiel’s wings is so important.

“Oh,” Castiel says and then he sits down, his face pale in a way that makes Dean worry.

“Why does it matter?”

“Humans shouldn’t be able to see our wings, Dean,” Castiel informs gravely.

“Well, I can,” Dean says, crossing his arms defensively. “And I’m as human as they come, pal.”

“Dean,” Castiel sounds upset, almost angry now, and it sets Dean on edge. “If a human can see and angels wings that means they’re soulmates.”

“Well,” Dean snaps because offense is his best defense and he doesn’t like how Castiel said that—like being Dean’s soulmate is a burden. “I don’t see what’s wrong with that.”

Castiel’s eyes are glowing now and Dean can’t help but take a step back. “You wouldn’t understand, Dean.”

“So tell me,” Dean demands because he refuses to be treated like this. He’s had enough people treat him like this to know that he deserves better. “Make me understand.”

Castiel glares at Dean, eyes still glowing. “Being soulmates with a human,” he spits out the word like a curse, and Dean bristles, “is what got Lucifer thrown out of heaven. It’s worse than death.”

“Well, you’re already down here, Castiel,” Dean shouts. Jesus-fucking-christ that fucking hurt worse than losing his leg. “So you might as well deal with it.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow and he takes a step forward. Dean tries to step back but the back of his leg hits the couch and he buckles down into the cushion. Castiel continues forward, every inch of him held tight and Dean is struck by how attractive the man looks like this.

“I will not seal myself to the fate of being soul-bonded to a human,” Castiel growls, towering over Dean.

Dean swallows and licks his lips, narrowing his eyes at Castiel even as he feels pinned to the couch by the angel’s glare.

“Good fucking luck trying to break it on your own, then,” Dean hisses.

For a moment, Dean thinks Castiel is going to smite him—the anger in the angel’s eyes is almost palpable—but then the man turns and stalks out of the library, his wings shifting vigorously as he goes.


	2. Chapter 2

“You absolutely one-hundred percent cannot come home,” Dean says stiffly, glaring at the angel sitting helplessly in the library. “I’m fine, Sammy. Just need some space.”

“Dean,” Sam says warningly. “Is it a sex thing?”

“It is absolutely _not_ a sex thing, Sam.”

“Alright,” Sam agrees after a moment. “We’ll stay away but I’m going to need daily check-ins from you.”

“Alright, mom,” Dean mocks.

He hangs up after another minute of conversation with a sigh. Dean sets his phone on the table and turns to face Castiel with narrowed eyes.

“Explain,” Dean demands, holding up the clump of feathers he’d found in the bathroom.

Castiel looks away and for a moment Dean thinks the angel isn’t going to speak.

“I cannot groom my wings on my own,” Castiel admits sullenly.

“So you’re pulling out your feathers?”

“It was an accident.”

Dean runs the hand not holding the feathers down his face with a sigh. He watches the way Castiel shifts on the couch. The angel may be stoic but his wings are telling Dean a different story in the way they shake behind him.

“Look,” Dean says gruffly. “I get it if you don’t like me or whatever but clearly you’re uncomfortable.”

“Dean—”

“And,” Dean continues loudly. “I can help you so you don’t _have_ to be uncomfortable. It’s up to you, buddy.”

Castiel doesn’t look at him. Instead, he stares at his hands. His wings seem to shiver behind him and if Dean wasn’t watching so closely then he wouldn’t have noticed the grimace briefly pass over Castiel’s face.

“You’re in pain,” Dean says carefully. He steps closer to Castiel, afraid that he might spook the angel. “Can I help?”

Castiel looks up at Dean with wide eyes, something almost like awe in them. It sits uncomfortably in Dean’s stomach: no divine creature should be looking at him like that.

“You would help me?” Castiel asks, tilting his head to the side and narrowing his eyes in a move so bird-like Dean almost laughs. “Even after I hurt you like I did?”

Dean nods. “What you did was shitty and it hurt, and if you’re going to stay here then we definitely have to talk about that. But you’re in pain and if I can do something to help then I’m going to.” Dean hesitates then, looking down at the ground to avoid Castiel’s intense stare. “Unless, of course, it makes you uncomfortable. Then we can think of something else.”

“I apologize, Dean,” Castiel says after a moment. “I was angry when I woke up, that is true, but I wasn’t angry at you. It was wrong of me to say what I did. Not everyone has a soulmate and it would be an honor to get to know mine.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks looking up hesitantly. Sharing his space with Castiel over the last week had not been easy. Knowing that he and Cas are soulmates and that Cas _didn’t want him_ hurt. “Can you tell me why you were angry?”

“I… I spent my entire life being lied to,” Castiel explains. “By God and by the angels—my family. They told me that Lucifer was expelled from heaven because he believed himself to be better than humans.”

“That wasn’t it, was it?” Dean asks gently when Castiel pauses. He pulls a chair closer to the couch and sits. “What really happened?”

“His soulmate was human.”

“You mentioned that,” Dean reminds him.

“When an angel completes their bond with a human either the human becomes an angel or—”

“The angel becomes human,” Dean finishes. “Lucifer wasn’t cast out of heaven because he thought himself better than humans. He was cast out because he became human.”

Castiel nods. Dean lets the silence draw out, allowing his own thoughts to gather as he works through this revelation. If he and Castiel were ever to complete their bond then one of them would have to change irrevocably.

He can understand why Castiel would be reluctant to do that. Dean would be reluctant to become an angel. He _likes_ being human, even if he’s a witchy one. He can’t imagine living a life as an angel.

“Is there a choice?” Dean asks quietly. “If—and that seems like a big if—if we completed the bond would we be able to choose who changes?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel says, his voice smaller than Dean’s ever heard it. “There’s not exactly anyone I can talk to about this.”

“That makes sense,” Dean nods his head. “How about we don’t worry about that right now. We know practically nothing about each other and no offense, but I’m not ready for a soulmate.”

“No offense taken.”

“Alright, so how can I help with those wings of yours?”

***

It turns out that grooming Castiel’s wings while he’s awake is a lot more interesting than grooming them when the angel is unconscious.

“They’re a lot softer than I imagined,” Dean remarks, soothing a ruffled feather into place. “And a lot warmer.”

“Didn’t you groom them when I first arrived on Earth?”

“They were wet,” Dean explains. “And I was a little bit frazzled by finding a random man by my greenhouse in the middle of a storm.”

Dean’s confident enough to admit that he enjoys helping Castiel with his wings. The angel twitches at each touch and his wings respond wonderfully as Dean helps move the feathers back into place.

“How does it feel?” Dean asks a moment later. He lets the silky feathers run through his fingers. It feels like dipping his hand into perfectly warm water.

“How does what feel?”

“Flying.”

Castiel takes a moment to ponder the question before responding. “It feels like freedom. I do not know if I could fly on earth, but in Heaven, flying is the only instance where I am my own person.”

“I’m not a fan of flying,” Dean confesses. “But that’s more to do with not being in control than anything else.”

Castiel hums under his touch and Dean lets himself get lost in the soothing motions of grooming Castiel’s wings.

Dean’s nearly done with one wing when he notices Castiel fidgeting on the stool. He doesn’t say anything, instead opting to finish the wing. Then Castiel moans and it’s all Dean can do to not react to the sound.

“You okay, buddy?”

“This feels nothing like I’m used to,” Castiel admits, his voice strained. “I do not dislike it but… I am unsure of how to react.”

“How would you like to react?” Dean asks, moving onto the next wing.

“I would like to kiss you.”

Dean curses, accidentally pulling on a handful of Castiel’s feathers and he’s met by a growl as the angel moves quicker than Dean can process. He finds himself pressed against the bathroom wall with a flushed Castiel gently cupping his face with surprisingly calloused hands.

“May I kiss you?”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees breathily. The warm press of Castiel’s body against his own is intoxicating. Dean’s always batted for both teams but it’s been a long time since he’s been with anyone, let alone a man. “Please.”

Lips crash into his own, chapped and warm, and Dean melts into the kiss immediately. For a moment, he’s not sure what to do with his hands but when warm, silky wings brush against his arms Dean buries his hands in them, gently but firmly tugging at the wings.

“Do that again,” Castiel growls, pulling away from where he’s pillaging Dean’s mouth. He leans his head on Dean’s shoulder, breathing heavily. “Please?”

Dean obeys, tugging on the wings again and Castiel lets out a moan, hips bucking against Dean in a delicious press of sensation.

“Dean,” Castiel moans. His name sounds like pure sin falling from Castiel’s kiss swollen lips and Dean can’t resist pulling the angel into another kiss. What feels like hours later Castiel pulls back and rests his forehead against Dean’s. “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” Dean replies, rocking against the leg Castiel has pressed between his thighs. “I want you.”

“You have me,” Castiel says and it sounds like a promise of a future together and that’s all Dean needs before he’s pulling at Castiel’s belt buckle with shaking fingers.

Later, after the hottest sex of Dean’s life—which includes when he was 19 and discovered a panty kink like no other—Dean’s lying in Castiel’s arms, tracing a finger lightly up and down a wing.

“What’s your favorite color?” Dean asks, the question slipping out before he can really process it.

“Green,” Castiel says decisively. His hands are running up and down Dean’s back, raising goosebumps on his skin and sending shivers down his spine. “Can I see your greenhouse?”

“That sounds like the world’s worst pick up line,” Dean says with a snort.

“You mentioned it earlier, and I know you go to it every day. I was curious because it’s important to you,” Castiel explains defensively. His touch remains soothing and Dean sinks into it.

“Yeah, we can go see it. But first I need a nap.”

***

Dean watches Castiel walk through the space that has only been _his_ since he built it and feels nothing except peace. They had a rocky start and he isn’t sure what to think of the angel, not really, but for the first time in a week, Dean feels like there might actually be something between them.

“This is wonderful,” Castiel says, looking from Dean to the garden.

“Thanks,” Dean says. He looks at Castiel with a smile. “This is the one place in the bunker that's mine.”

“I thought the whole bunker was yours,” Castiel says with furrowed brows and his head tilted to the side in the way that Dean is growing to love.

“I share that," Dean says as he fiddles with one of the plants by the door. "But this here is entirely mine."

Castiel looks at Dean with an intense expression, like he's staring into Dean’s soul. Dean has to fight the urge not to fidget as he waits for Castiel to say something.

"Well thank you for sharing it with me," Castiel smiles. The angel hesitates like he wants to say something else. "You know Dean, I really am sorry for the way I acted when I first woke up. I didn't mean the things that I said. I am lucky to have you as my soulmate."

"It's fine," Dean replies, and it is fine. Sure, what Castiel said had hurt Dean but he has had time to think about. He remembers what it was like to have your whole world change in the blink of an eye. The pain, the anger, the undying sense that because everything is different you must treat people differently. "I understand you're angry. and I forgive you for it, but if you ever say something like that again... Oh, well, I don't actually know what I'm going to do but it's not going to be fun."

"It's not fine, but thank you,"Castiel says.

"well I say it's fine so it is."

***  
It takes them a week to fall into a routine. Castiel doesn’t have to sleep, so he spends his time in the library reading or watching TV. When Dean wakes up, he makes breakfast and the two of them sit on the couch and end up talking about everything and nothing.

When they finish, the two of them take a walk to the greenhouse so Dean can check on his plants and rub the salve on his legs. Sometimes, Dean has to collect plants for a spell and he quickly finds that Castiel is a very competent assistant.

Dean talks with Sam every day, convincing his brother that no, it is still not a sex thing (even though he and Cas are having regular sex now). Castiel still needs some space to adjust to Earth. And yes Sam, he’ll be ready to meet more humans soon. Which would probably be good for his education on how the human species works. Learning how to be a human from Dean Winchester is probably not a good idea.

They talk a lot. Which is something Dean finds really weird. He's been in a few relationships before—with both men and women—but the connection he has with Castiel is something that he's never experienced in the past.

Dean’s favorite thing to do is to help Castiel groom his wings. Castiel's reactions to Dean running his fingers through silky feathers is one of his favorite things to witness. The way that Castiel moans sends a shiver down his spine and has his cock filling out.

It becomes a part of their routine.

"Would you ever want to be an angel?"Castiel asks one day, running his fingers through Dean's hair where Dean is resting his head against Castiel’s bare thigh.

"I don't think I would be upset if that happened. But it's not something that I want. I like being a human, even if I'm not a normal one. "

They lapse into silence. Castiel's fingers continue to run through Dean's hair, massaging his scalp and tugging at the strands, sending sparks through Dean’s body. Dean doesn't want to move; he loves feeling Castiel against him, loves the quiet intimacy that comes with moments like this.

"Would you ever want to be a human?" Dean ventures after a couple of minutes of quiet companionship.

"I think I would," Castiel says leaning down to press a gentle kiss against Dean's hair. "My only concern, Dean, is that we don't have a choice."

"We always have a choice, Cas,” Dean reminds the angel. He sits up so he can look Castiel in the eye. "I'm sure it doesn't always feel that way. I know it doesn't always feel that way. Everything we do, everything we are, and everything we will be is our choice. We will always have free will."

"You're right, Dean "

“Of course I'm right," Dean grins at his angel. "And if we're going to do what I think you're talking about, you best get used to it."

"What is it that you think I'm talking about?" Castiel asks playfully. He pulls Dean into a searing kiss.

"I'm thinking you're talkin about us," Dean kisses Castiel again, unable to resist. He pulls away after a few moments and continues breathlessly. "Sorry, couldn't resist. I'm thinking you're talking about us becoming soulmates for reals. For life. “

Castiel uses his unnatural strength to pull Dean up into his arms as he stands. Dean wraps his legs around Castiel's waist. Castiel brings them into the room they now share, where he proceeds to ravish Dean for hours on end.

"You know Cas," Dean says lightly tracing patterns onto Castiel's chest. "You never actually asked if I want to complete the bond.”

"Dean Winchester, would you make me the happiest angel on Earth by completing our Soul Bond?”

Dean answers by pulling Castiel into a kiss that has his toes curling and blood rushing to his spent cock. Dean wines at the feeling, wanting more than nothing to go again. Castiel has other ideas as he wraps a blanket around them both. Dean falls into a quiet sleep, safe in his angel’s arms.

***

"So what you're telling me, is that you kept us away for two weeks so that you could bone an angel.” Sam groans over the phone. "You told me the entire time that it wasn't a sex thing. "

"Wasn't a sex thing... Not at the start," Dean refutes. "And even now, I'd say it's more than a sex thing. It's a soulmate thing.”

Dean leans into Castiel’s side, letting one of the angel's wings wrap around his body. He'd called his brother this morning to let Sam know that the hunting party could return to the bunker. Castiel is ready to meet Dean’s family.

Castiel places a short but sweet kiss on Dean's forehead before he grabs the phone from Dean who tries to wrestle it back but can't.

"I am looking forward to meeting you, Sam," Castiel says in his deep voice. "Dean has told me much about you. And the hunters that you travel with."

"Cas, give it back," Dean tries reaching to grab the phone but Castiel easily keeps it away. "Cas.”

"He's just telling me sorry that I'm stuck with you for the rest of my life," Castiel says with a teasing smile playing at the corner of his wonderfully chapped lips. "And he also says that you're the best man that he's ever known and I'm lucky to have you which is true: I am lucky."

"Stop being a sap, Cas," Dean groans, dropping his head into his hands to hide the blush he knows is on his cheeks. "Give me the damn phone back. "

"Fine," Castiel agrees, handing the phone back to Dean and then pulling Dean back into his arms.

"He sounds like he's good for you,” Sam says, once Dean is comfortable.

“He is good for me." He knows he’s smiling sappily at Cas but he doesn’t care. There is no one there to see it except the angel and Dean doesn't want to hide the way he feels for Cas.

"We’ll be home this evening. I'm looking forward to meeting your soulmate."

“Sounds good,” Dean says. “And thanks again for giving us some space, Sammy.”

“See you soon, Jerk,” Sam chuckles. “Make sure you’re decent.”

“I’m always decent!” Dean tries to argue, but the call disconnects before he can. He huffs and sets the phone down turning to grin at Cas. “You ready to meet the family?”

“Are you sure it’s not too soon?” Castiel asks, not for the first time. “It’s barely been a month.”

Dean shrugs, reaching out to grab Castiel’s hand. “When you know, you know. And besides, I’m not getting any younger, I’d rather experience all life has to offer with you while I can.”

Castiel’s arms wrap tighter around Dean, his eyes crinkling delightfully as his smile grows. “I feel exactly the same, Dean.”

***

**Six Months Later:**

Dean grins as he slips into the pool, the water feels awesome against his sun-warmed skin. Dean has always felt free in the water, where he can move without the use of a prosthetic or a cane and he’s very happy with their choice of honeymoon location.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel greets, swimming up behind Dean and wrapping his arms around the human’s waist.

“Cas,” Dean says, delighting in the feel of warm arms touching his bare skin. He hopes he always gets butterflies when Castiel says his name. “I thought chlorine was bad for your wings?”

Castiel grins, turning Dean in his arms so they can share a kiss. “The spell you developed works. My wings are dry.”

Dean laughs delightedly, looking over Castiel’s shoulders to admire the angel’s beautiful wings. He kisses the angel again, licking into his mouth and moaning as the kiss grows hotter. Dean slips his hands into the back of Castiel’s shorts and pulls the angel firmer against him.

Castiel groans, one of his hands snaking into Dean’s hair and tugging gently, moving Dean’s head to where he wants it. Castiel kisses down Dean’s throat, drawing moans and whines out of him that Dean is no longer embarrassed by.

“Take me to bed?” Dean requests breathlessly, laughing when Castiel immediately lifts Dean into his arms.

“I am so lucky to have you,” Castiel whispers against his lips, not watching where he’s walking as he enters their room through the sliding glass doors. “I love you, dearest soulmate.”

“Love you too, Angel,” Dean grins. He reaches back and runs his hands through silky feathers, thrilled that their bonding didn’t change either of them. “Love you more if you’d fuck me, though.”

“With pleasure.”


End file.
